What would Quatre say?
by Winter Still
Summary: Tehe...What would Trowa do if he was stuck in an -ahem- office for the troubled? Tehe. Rated PG for some rather...disturbing thoughts. one shot


I sat silently in an ironically plush-looking chair. I say "ironic" because the damn thing was hard as a rock.   
  
"Well..." the stunning blonde sitting across from me started, "How was your day?" I think she pretends not to know that I notice she drags out her words so I have to pay more. Well...Not me persay, more like Preventors. But I'm pretty sure Une is taking this out of my paycheck for years to come. I decide to make this as quick and as painless as possible.  
  
"Fine." I answer bluntly. The woman, I think her name is Dr. Cognac, brings her eyebrows together in a complative manner and scribbles something down on her clipboard. Actually, the paper ON the clipboard, but you know what I mean.   
  
"So tell me," she asks again in that aggravatingly slow voice that pronounciates each and every sound, "how was your day?"  
  
I raise my eyebrows. Didn't we do this all ready? Is she sure I'm the one who should be in therapy? "Fine." I answer again, mimicking her own slow, deep tone.  
  
This time, her nose scrunches. I can tell she's annoyed, some women do that when they're annoyed. I've seen it.  
  
"Trowa, was it?" I nod quickly. When is this going to be over? "Why are you here?" I glare at her. Why is she asking stupid questions? Oh yeah, the money issue. I guess therapists are really underpaid.  
  
I think I killed her with my glare. Her eyes are glossy and blank. Her mouth slightly agape, like a door someone just pushed closed, not really meaning to close it. I watch her carefully for a few moments, checking for any sign of movement...or life. Then I see it. Her chest just swelled. Not that I was looking there specifically. I already have a boyfriend, thank you very much.  
  
With full knowledge and confidence that she was alive and inert, I headed towards the door intending to pass off the remaining time left for therapy with a certain someone. "Where are you going?" her voice asked, apparently ditching slow and stupid for sharp and high pitched.  
  
"To get a drink of water." I quickly lied, rubbing my ears in hope that they would stop ringing.  
  
Dr. Cognac stared at me for god knows how long before she blinked and broke into hysterical laughter. I glanced at my wrist watch, a birthday present,45 minutes left. If I grabbed some random motorcycle in the parking lot, I might make in time to watch Rurouni Kenshin. I grabbed the doorknob again. The laughter suddenly stopped, but I paid no attention. Two more minutes and I'd be home free. (A/N: It would take Trowa two minutes to find this "random" motorcycle and get the hell outta there!!) "Where are you going?" her harpy like voice asked again. I sighed, rubbing my temples. This was getting annoying.  
  
"To get some water." I answered again, barely keeping my anger down. Breathe Trowa. Breathe. That's what got you here in the first place. Honestly, just because you hold a guy at gunpoint for interrogation and then beat the crap out of him because he was making moves on your partner (A/N: A.K.A. Quatre [and it was a combination of pistol whipping, chair throwing, punching, kicking, throwing, twisting and stomping]) suddenly makes you a nutcase? I think I sighed out loud, because psycho harpie says in that slow, deep voice of hers,   
  
"Do you want to sit down?" I nod, and slump tiredly into the chair. No Rurounies today. "Would you like some water?" I nod languidly, glancing at the clock on the wall as I do so. 30 minutes left. She leaves and comes back with some cheap Dixie(tm) cup imitation. I mumble my thanks, watching her surreptitiously as I sip. She scribbles something on the paper and stuffs it into a folder, then reaches for a mug on the desk. I smell hazelnut coffee.  
  
15 minutes left. All she has done for the past 14 and a half minutes is sip her coffee. I'm starting to wonder if she has a bottomless pit for a thermos. Next to me is a garbage can full of empty crumpled Dixie(tm) cups. At least I hope it's a garbage can, it looks more like a fancy basket.   
  
13 minutes left. What am I going to eat when I get home? Let's see...I had ramen yeaterday and- "So, anything you would like to ask me?"  
  
My brow furrows in thought. What would Quatre say? 'Why am I here?' No. That's obvious. 'Why are YOU here?' Another stupid question. 'What's your favorite color?' No he wouldn't- Actually, yes he would. Quatre would probably ask some irrelevant question and kill the rest of the time by listening to the nonsense rambling of the psychatrist. That's it! That's what he would do! But what to ask... 'What's your favorite color?' No. Too easy. Doesn't really require a long answer, five syllables at most. Unless... I glanced up at the waiting doctor's face. Nope, definitely not the talkative type. Though I wonder, would she agree to a threesome? Oh gods, I'm losing it. I shake my head and start thinking again. Maybe her favorite food...  
  
Dr Cognac glanced at the clock. "Oh my, we're 15 minutes late. Mr. Barton?" she addressed the man on her couch, brow furrowed with deep thought. "Mr. Barton. Trowa? Heeeeellllllooooo? Trowa?"  
  
Owari  
  
A/N: The moral of the story is "SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU THINK LIKE QUATRE?!?!?!?!" At least that's what I want it to be... But the people here at Bandai who are currently holding me at gunpoint say otherwise. Who am I to oppose?   
  
Soooooo, the real moral of this story is, Don't think like anyone else but yourself. ::mumbles:: What a load of CRAP!!  
  
::sound of a gun being cocked:: Hehe. Sorry Mister Bandai....AKA BLOODSUCKING ASS KISSING- ::sound of gun being fired::  
  
Prerecorded robot voice: This has been a Yukari Production. Feel free to leave your computer terminals at this time. 


End file.
